Like You, Like Me
by Maddeline Kirkland-Bonnefoy
Summary: - Roderich and Gilbert have a worrying conversation about their daughter. - Rated for themes and implied past mpreg.


**Um, well... not much to say... Just based off of my headcanon that a certain neutral principality is Roderich and Gilbert's daughter, and off of a conversation/RP I had with an amazing Prussia. Ich liebe dich, Mutti~**

**Disclaimer: I do not own. Period. At all. End of story.**

**WARNING: PruAus/AusPru; STRONGLY implied past mpreg; mentions of self-harm, attempted suicide, and eating disorders. And completely ignoring historical accuracy. I have other things in progress, if you want that.**

**Enjoy~**

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"She's a lot like you, you know…"

The brunette Austrian looked up from his piano and the sheet music he had been composing – he wasn't called maestro for nothing, after all – to meet the wine-red gaze of an albino Prussian. Said Prussian was currently leaning against the grand piano, resting his weight forward on his elbows and forearms, his usually haughty and mischievous expression not able to hide the unease in his eyes. Turning his violet gaze back to the music sheets, his fingers trailing over the keys as he worked out what he was imagining, the slighter male responded; though he didn't seem very interested, he was dividing his attention in eighty and twenty percents – the former to the conversation, the latter to his music. It was a skill he had perfected over his many years of life and existence as one of the elder Nations of the World.

"And just what do you mean by that, Gilbert?" A pause, then, "You say it as if it were a bad thing… She is my daughter, too, after all."

Another moment of silence passed between the two Germanic nations, as one formulated his thoughts and the other pretended to be more absorbed in his music than he really was.

"She's… Young as she is, she's already so proud of what little she has… She's seen more than we ever wanted her to see…" The slightly more robust nation trailed off, but then scolded himself; this was Austria, the man he had loved for centuries, despite everything. This was the man he had grown up with, fought wars with – both against and beside – and, most importantly, the father of his children. One such child they were discussing just then. Quickly licking his lips to moisten them, he continued. "Even for being so young, she feels more than we would like to admit… She takes her own failings to heart so very much, just like I've seen you do time and again… She hurts herself because she is ashamed of what she can't do, and hates herself for wanting that pain – for having no other way to express her self-loathing."

The musician and former empire looked up sharply at this; the silence which fell between them equally as razor-like. It was rare for the albino to be this serious, let alone both serious _and_ not engaging in his usual arrogance (the older Germanics teased him that his constant use of "awesome" was simply a verbal tic). The silence extended, the two locking gazes, but neither quite sure what to say to continue the conversation. When the silence became unbearable, the Austrian sighed softly, removing his glasses and rubbing his eyes with his thumb and first finger. Opening his eyes once more, to gaze at his lover, he slipped the frames back into their place on his aristocratic features, and murmured, "That sounds a bit more like you, than like me… Do you know how long she has been doing this?"

"Unfortunately, no," he didn't even pause long enough to grimace, but it could be heard in his tone; he was more worried than he wanted to let on. "However, I do know that she's attempted to take her own life at least twice now." Here he did pause, his ruby gaze locking with the amethyst of his lover, hoping that what he was about to say wouldn't hurt as much as it had hurt hearing it. "She tried to take her own life once during each World War. I've seen the scars, and had at least that much confirmed by her."

Not allowing himself to flinch – even if it did feel as though he had been struck, hard, across the face – Roderich gave up all pretense of focusing upon his music, and shifted to face Gilbert completely. "Once… for each World War," he echoed quietly, each word measured, and though his expression told nothing of what he was feeling, his lover could read it, plain as day. After another moment of silence, he spoke once more. "Does she blame – ?" Though he was disgusted with himself for it, the brunette couldn't bring himself to ask that question.

"Us? No." His laugh was short and harsh and bitter. "I almost wish did, honestly… But no, she blames herself, completely. Even if she couldn't have been at fault, she still does." Braking off, unsure of how to continue, the albino Prussian cast his gaze about the room. He didn't want to see the hidden pain in his lover's features; couldn't bare it just then, as it echoed his own far too much. Thankfully, however, he was spared from having to further try to find ways to put what he was feeling into words, something he had never been good with.

"…You said she has tried 'at least' twice," Roderich pressed, easily – far, far too easily, God – working past the pain he felt, and the forming lump of emotion in his throat. Though the natural, biological reaction would have been to cry, his centuries-old iron grip on his composure (something he had unknowingly taught the daughter in question) kept him from showing anything, let alone allowing the tears to do what they would. "I take it that means that there are very likely other suicide attempts that neither of us know of, correct?"

The violet-eyed didn't comment on the flinch, just as the albino didn't try to hide it; now wasn't the time for petty fighting or bravado. "Ja…" the Prussian answered at length, his own emotions for once not hidden, but thankfully not making him incoherent, either. The pianist had seen that only a few times in history – the most prominent being when their eldest child had been born, and when Holy Rome and died in the albino's arms. Neither, of course, was completely relevant, currently. "Ja, it's actually something that worries me… along with…" Once more he found himself unsure of how to continue. Attempting suicide, while distressing, was one thing; every nation tried it at some point or other, as it just sort of came with surviving/participating in/creating wars, and just the general cruelty of the world. But this… this was something else entirely.

"Along with…?" the Austrian prompted gently, allowing the slight softness into his voice only upon seeing the worry that his lover couldn't quite hide. Well, not that Gilbert had actually been trying to, but after centuries of hiding what they felt – one with a cold, aristocratic veneer, and the other with boisterous, cheerful arrogance – it was something of second nature for the two. Not to say that they couldn't allow what they felt show, but it was just something they rarely did. Even now, it wasn't something that came easily.

Another silence fell between them, stretching just as long as the first, but there was also much less sharpness to this one. It was equally as strained – though, once again, not openly – but it held a different kind of charge. It was more… emotional than the first had been, even if not overtly so. Finally, after taking a breath to calm himself, as there was no need for him to become overly emotional just ten (as strange as it sounded, coming from the albino), he spoke, words weighted with something that the ex-empire couldn't define. It was something he wasn't even sure he _wanted_ to define. "…Do you know what anorexia nervosa is, Roddy?"

The temperature seemed to drop, as the sharpness returned to the silence between them. This time, it was harder to keep himself composed, but the musician managed it, even if it felt as if he had been punched in the gut, this time, rather than just slapped. (He ignored the annoying nickname; now was certainly _not_ the time for commenting on it.) Those two words – two syllables, fifteen letters – seemed to make the bottom fall out of his world for just a moment. It was, it seemed, worse than what he had felt, when he was informed of the divorce with Elizaveta after the Great War, worse than when he had faced both an unrequited love and an ex-spouse across the same battlefield. It was worse, even, than when his daughter had nearly died after being born, four months too soon.

Anorexia nervosa.

Those words – or the name of any wide-spread psychiatric disorder - could probably make the blood of any Nation, any person, run cold. While more prevalent in countries such as America or Japan, it was still something that the rest of the Western world was concerned with. As for the fact that Europe itself may have had lower statistics, that meant nothing to the maestro just then. To be told in no uncertain terms, even if not in so many words, that his daughter – brave like Gilbert, musical like himself, kind and intelligent and, though he hardly ever showed it, _his little girl_ – suffered from that same mental and physical disorder… To know that he had probably played a large role in her own hatered of herself… It was devastating.

It was something he couldn't deal with just then.

Thankfully, though his own cowardice still disgusted him, after all of these years, the grandfather clock struck the hour, and Roderich stood from his piano. Startled, and confused, a gaze the color of fresh blood met his own cool amethyst. The question within them was obvious, the Austria kept his expression carefully controlled. He couldn't deal with this, and the time had given him the perfect excuse to stall. Murmuring only a few words about needing to meet with his boss, and about how Herr Fischer expected him to be punctual, the brunette moved around the piano bench and left the room without another word. Gilbert merely watched his lover leave, unable to stop his self-deriding thoughts that he should have expected a reaction like this. Ruby gaze attempting to burn holes in the polished lback surface of the grand piano, the Prussian couldn't help feeling just slightly angry at the fact that Roderich hadn't changed a bit in any of the hundreds of years he had known him.

Calming himself, Gilbert cast his gaze toward the vase of lilies set upon a small table on the other side of the conservatory. The vase was situated beside an unopened, untouched violin case. As he mulled over the girl whom the extremely costly violin was for, a small smile touched the albino's lips; though sad as it was, it was still a smile. It had cost Austria a pretty penny to buy it at the auctions on June 20th last year, but the brunette had (though flustered) later admitted with a small smile that the young lady for whom he had purchased the instrument was worth every cent. (Though it had been purchased in time for her birthday the previous year, it hadn't arrived in time, and it had been intended for this one, her 670th.) The ex-Nation sighed softly; if only the Austrian could show how much he cared in other ways, as well…

"Ich wünschte, wir könnten Ihnen helfen, mein Baby, aber dieses Mal Ich fürchte, Sie müssen dieser Schlacht auf Ihrem eigenen kämpfen," the albino murmured, before leaving as well; he had promised his younger brother he would cook dinner that night, and didn't want Ludwig to yell at him for being late.


End file.
